'Soothsayers, ah! how little do they know!
Of what avail are temples, vows, and prayers,
To quell a raging passion? All the while
A subtle flame is smouldering in her veins,
And in her heart a silent aching wound.

* * * * *

Now Dido leads
Aeneas round the ramparts, to him shows
The wealth of Sidon, all the town laid out,
Begins to speak, then stops, she knows not why.
Now, as day wanes, the feast of yesterday
She gives again, again with fevered lips
Begs for the tale of Troy and all its woes,
And hangs upon his lips, who tells the tale.
Then, when the guests are gone and in her turn
The wan moon pales her light, and waning stars
Persuade to sleep, she in her empty halls
Mourns all alone, and throws herself along
The couch where he had lain: though he be gone
Far from her side, she hears and sees him still.'

Of the merits of the present translation the reader will judge for
himself; but it may perhaps be said of the usual objections urged
against the Spenserian stanza--that it is cumbrous and monotonous,
and presents difficulties of construction--that the two former
criticisms will be just or the reverse, according to the skill of
the writer, while it is quite possible that the last is really an
advantage, for the intricate machinery imposes a restraint on